


i can't help but consider

by TheLittleTrashCat



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders Angst, Depression, Gen, Heavy Angst, Sad Ending, Self-Harm, a series thats just called "i project onto roman", alternative universe, bc tbh i do that a lot, i really just need to make like, i think this is the ventyist vent fic ive ever made, that i wrote instead of doing what roman did, this is a vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:34:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21983731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLittleTrashCat/pseuds/TheLittleTrashCat
Summary: Roman knows he shouldn't.Heknows. It would be an incredibly stupid decision, and he'd so angry at himself afterwards.But still..He can't help but consider.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 57





	i can't help but consider

Roman yanked on the fidget in his hands, harder than what was strictly necessary.

Crumpling it back into itself, he continued to wring it aggressively. He was sitting on a chair in his room - not draped across it sideways or with one leg crossed like normal. A strange, morbid fascination filled him, as well as a numbness that years ago might have been sadness, anger, or even fear. It was the part of him that he wished would come back, for sometimes the numbness, the lack of emotions asides from sadness that came when there was no direct stimuli, no daydream, fanfic, or YouTube to distract himself from the fact all his emotions were very in the moment, and faded quickly after. It left him unable to tell what he really was feeling.

Especially now.

Outside, he could hear his brother and father arguing - something that had started about a handcomb but had turned into something worse. Most of their arguments went like this. They always started as something simple, but they always escalated. He couldn’t remember a time they hadn’t. The fights sometimes lasted hours, and it made Roman feel an emotion that he couldn’t name. 

He could just ignore them, but considering it was happening right outside his door, like most did...he couldn’t avoid it. 

He couldn’t help but listen intently, either. He was waiting for a moment that he could jump in, and stop what seemed like plain one sided yelling from his dad, and those moments did come, but he never followed through. He was too afraid of being punished.

This was normal though. Every family had fights, Roman reasoned, so this was normal.

It was they day after Christmas. The day before, Christmas day, they had been getting along great. But, his father had been acting impatient, grouchy, and snappish in the past week, so Roman supposed he should have seen this coming.

In another life, or perhaps when he was younger, he would have been crying right now. He envied his younger self for that, actually. The ability to cry when things got too much.

Roman could distinctly remember the last time he had cried.

It had been one night, at midnight, a few months ago. Or was it one? Two? He didn’t remember. It had been self induced, too.

The previous one had been around a year ago, if he remembered correctly. It had been over something simple, and he had broken down in front of all of them.

Before that...nothing. It would have been years ago, when he still got grounded, or when he argued with his parents, or argued with his brother and got in trouble.

Roman fought with his brother a lot. Not much anymore, but then again, they never spoke.

After Roman and his brother, his brother and dad argued the most. After their fights, he would hear them talk it out through his door, hear them apologize, realize their mistakes, and move on. It made a pressure build in his chest and the back of his eyeballs as as if he were going to cry, but he never did. Never could. He wished he could. Crying wasn’t a sign of weakness. He knew that. It was good for releasing emotions, and Roman...well, he could use a good release.

A better one than this, at least.

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror in only his boxera, a mere half an hour after the “kiss and make up” (though he had only heard his dad use a friendly voice, and didn’t hear his brother say anything at all, which made it worse) segment of his dad and brother's argument, Roman studied his face.

He looked like shit.

His nose was red and scratched, the ever present purple bags under his eyes were there, his face was covered in acne, his hair was disheveled, and he looked like a mess. A horrible, horrible mess.

He turned his gaze from the mirror down to the counter and sink where, resting his eyes on his shaving razor.

It sat there, taunting him with its obnoxious pink coloring. Silently jeering at him for even _considering_ this, for having such a thought and temptation.

Roman reached out and gently picked it off the table, gently turning it to see the blades. As he stared down at the razor in his hands, something in his chest tightened. He shouldn’t. He _shouldn’t._ He had promised himself he wouldn’t go back to bad habits, he had promised himself three years ago, when he had decided that he wasn’t going to cut anymore, that would never do ever again. That he didn’t need to.

Roman stared at the razor a moment longer, the dull and shineless blades taunting him.

He knew he shouldn’t. God, he knew he shouldn’t.

He had been so proud of himself earlier that year, that even when who he had then had thought were his friends, the only friends he’d had that year, stabbed him in the back, calling a dramatic bitch and enlightening him oh so kindly that they were only hanging out with him when he was bored, that he hadn’t relapsed.

He had fought the urge whenever it cropped up, and he had _succeeded._ And that was a serious situation. This was...pointless. 

The fact that the sudden urge - because he never thought “I want to cut.” It was always simply a _feeling,_ that maybe he should brimg a blade to his skin - had even broght him to this point was stupid. Overly dramatic.

Roman’s gaze drifted downwards, and he shifted his legs, staring at the scars on his thighs. They were mostly faded now, pale compared to what they used to be, but there were too many and too visible to not be questioned if noticed.

It reminded Roman of when his parents had figured out about his self harm. His mom had been cleaning his room, and one of his journals had popped open, and she couldn’t help but read part of it. HIi parents had sat him down and asked if he had hurt himself.

And he had lied.

He had lowered his head, eyes trained to to floor, and quietly replied, “Only once.”

And he was lying. It was not only once. But Roman was a liar, so he wasn’t surprised. If he had to guess why he did it, he would say he didn’t want to be treated any differently. And, he wasn’t. A speech about how they were there for him, and then he was left alone.

Sometimes, though, his father would ask about how he was. They both asked how he was doing, actually, and Roman prided himself (privately) on being able to respond with something other than good. Of course, his responses were only ever “eh” or “meh” but it was usually the truth. 

However, sometimes his father would go farther.

The one that immediately comes to mind was, “How have you been? Not wanting to chop your finger off or anything?’ asked somewhat nonchalantly and a part of Roman wanted to scream out that he was being stupid, it didn’t work like that, and he was _wrong, wrong wrong!_ But Roman never could think of something to say, so he was left to responded with, “No, I’m good,” and leave at that, because the question was _wrong_ but he _knew_ he’d never be able to explain why.

His parents cared about him, they loved him, and he knew they were trying, but they were asking all the wrong questions and doing all the wrong things, but he couldn’t explain _why._

Like the incident from a few months ago. They had been helping with his brother homework, six sentence stories, and he’d made a slightly dark suggestions. His mother had then questioned “Is that really what's going on in your brain? I may need to fill it with sunshine and rainbows ” and it made him _sick._ It was only when he snapped at her about not being able to control his thought that she had apologized, but her voice had sounded so sickly sweet and fake as she caressed his hair that he had wanted to _leave._

Roman wondered what his parents would think if they saw him now.

They’d probably scold him, and them knowing that he even _considered_ self harm sometimes was terrifying enough, so he chose not to think about it, instead staring down at his hips.

There was a mini war inside him. A battle of choices, just like every decision in his life. He knew he shouldn’t, and the fear of being caught was ever present, but the _feeling_ was there, quietly whispering.

Roman he pinched the skin of his hips, pulling the fat layer around to a satisfying position that would give him an easier time. Then brought the razor down.

Roman pressed the blade into his skin, already feeling the familiar sting of pain as the sharp metal dug into his skin, lightly breaking the skin.

And then he drug the razor across his hip, thus breaking the vow he had made all those years ago, over something that was a normal occurrence.

He really was stupid, wasn’t he.


End file.
